


An Extremely Belated OotStober and If You Think This Is In Literally Any Semblance of Actual Order You Are Wrong

by EtchCantrellorLightningHeterodyne



Category: The Order of the Stick
Genre: I'm Not Fucking Shitting You READ THE CHAPTER SUMMARIES, Multi, Warnings In Chapter Summary If Any Even Apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtchCantrellorLightningHeterodyne/pseuds/EtchCantrellorLightningHeterodyne
Summary: I use the 2019 Inktober list to write Order of the Stick oneshots because I'm sorry I procrastinate on everything but not sorry enough to stop, no this is not in order of days I just post as I write and count the days until my next day off.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Ring

In a universe about six inches to the left, things turned out very, very different for the Order of the Stick.

Elan grew up with a father who loved him, a General Tarquin who wanted to unite the continent to  _ end _ the wars, not be a villain. Elan thus grew up a strategist, a sorcerer, and with his knowledge of lore, a brilliant young man.

Tarquin sends him off to learn more about his magic. Elan, a sorcerer, decides to travel, and he happens upon a tavern, where a redhead and an elf meet him.

Vaarsuvius learned from their parents when their parents taught them about the natural world, and so when Aarindarius told them of a nearby monastery looking for trainees, Vaarsuvius packed their things and went. When they had learned all they felt they could learn, the monk left, split red robes billowing in the wind, and looking to learn more, they joined an adventuring party, at around the same time as one redheaded bard.

Haley’s father had been a rogue, but she had become a bard. Ever a pretty face or a bright smile to distract the passers by while Daddy Dearest robbed them blind, she honed her music skills until the day her father vanished, and the Thieve’s Guild demanded she join to fill his place. Haley, being Haley, refused, set out, joined an adventuring party, left the adventuring party with her new best friend- a monk, oddly enough- in tow, and wound up in a tavern, talking to a sorcerer, until a druid and a Lawful Good barbarian who went on rampages that involved chucking pedestrians back onto sidewalks and picking up litter with a lot of aggression walked in.

Roy had become a barbarian to slight his father, and found that he was fond of it. He liked the way movement was easy, the way the world flowed, the way he could sense danger when he connected, just a little bit, with the raw, primal core of himself, that for so long he’d feared until he’d realized that even in a rage, he did the right thing. Naturally, this landed him in prison, because he killed the mayor who secretly owned slaves.

Durkon was a druid, one who came to be because he knew, even with evil things, that there were always exceptions. So, he learned the ways of the plants, and used the knowledge to convert them to good- however, one incident in a city park led to his spells going a  _ bit _ wonky, and that might have blown up the nearby prison, but he got a best friend out of it, so whatever, right?

Vaarsuvius the monk walked out of that tavern a party leader, with Elan the sorcerer as their second in command, Haley the bard as their resident charisma fountain, Roy the barbarian as muscle and morality, and Durkon the druid as a healer, and for a few miles, things were fine, until out of nowhere a halfling dropped out of the trees.

Belkar was a rogue- an assassin. And he loved it. He loved hearing people talk about murders nobody could solve. He loved killing someone and getting away with it so perfectly that nobody even thought to glance at him. Naturally, when he took offence with his guild’s leader, he had to use all that considerable skill to flee the city. But Belkar was a crafty bastard, and he took the trees, because none of his peers were stealthy enough to manage it- and then the sound of voices came, and he heard the words ‘adventuring party’ and his choice was made.

The Order of the Stick took a long and winding road. Azure City fell, Xykon rose, and the Order lost everything except each other, which to them just meant they didn’t lose anything at all.

Elan lost Tarquin to a fight with Haley’s evil father. Vaarsuvius killed a dragon and paid the price. Haley got turned into a vampire saving Belkar, and the Order only realized she was evil when she reminded Vaarsuvius of the reason they’d never become a wizard- that reason being the failed spell that killed their spouse. Belkar found a family, and a cat. Durkon fought the gods themselves. Roy reached out to Redcloak. The Order lost, and then the Order won, and this is the night after that happened.

They are gathered in a dwarven hall, the kind meant for feasting. Vaarsuivus is on the floor in front of the large fireplace, where all their party is gathered, doing the usual stretches needed to keep themself in shape. Their red robes are baggy over their white shirt and brown pants, and their quarterstaff is lying on the ground next to them. Their eyes are closed, hair pulled back into its usual braid, and they are planning the Order’s next step.

Haley is lounging half on cushions and half on Elan, strumming something low and soothing on her lute. Her green vest is a little more low-cut than her billowing white shirt, and her black pants look close to painted on, and that’s how she likes it. Her red hair is, as usual, spilling in waves over her shoulders- it’s gotten to Elan in more ways than one, more than once. She gets the feeling her friends could use some inspiration.

Elan is watching his arcane focus- a beautiful diamond, set into the circlet that marked him as his father’s son, and now as the ruler of his father’s lands- catch the light, turning it this way and that in his hands. He smooths his deep blue robes out for the umpteenth time, feeling silk velvet under his fingers, wondering how he’s supposed to rule a kingdom. There’s a sharp note from Haley’s lute.  _ Right _ , he thinks,  _ how the Order is supposed to rule a kingdom _ . And despite what Tarquin said about people you could trust, Elan knew he would never do it without his friends.

Durkon is growing flowers again, threading them into his beard as usual. Matching blooms spring up on his leather armor and colorful knee-length robes. His ancient staff sits next to him, a still-living tree, and matching blossoms form on that, too. He finishes with his beard, and starts making the Order flower crowns. They  _ are _ going to set off to go rule Elan’s kingdom, after this, and he wants to crown them in some way first.

Roy is sharpening his ancestral sword, looking a little like Hercules. Thick, warm furs cover his torso, buckled with leather straps over a wool shirt, and leather pants cover his legs, tucked into his soft-soled, fur lined boots. He does look the part of a barbarian, but it’s softened, just a little, by the flower crown Durkon puts on his head and the many brooches the Order had gotten him to better fasten the furs.

Belkar is sitting across from Vaarsuvius, and he smiles a little at his monk. The ninja hadn’t expected to join the party and actually like it, and he’d even less expected to fall for an elven monk with purple hair, but… oh well. He’s checking his throwing knives, hidden in their sheaths, inside his black Azurite clothing. Therkla had been a coworker of his, once upon a time. It was a shame to know she’d been lost. He pets his cat, and the raven he got Vaarsuvius caws. He’s thinking that it’s good, that he’s been better off since he let Vaarsuvius and then the rest of the Order soften his edges.

The Order will eventually get up, and leave this hall to rule the Empire of Adalet. Elan will become a king in his father’s stead, and he and Haley will have long been married by that point, with Vaarsuvius walking her down the isle and Durkon officiating, and so she will become a queen. Roy is named the royal bodyguard, and Durkon the royal cleric. Belkar becomes their resident ninja, and Vaarsuvius Haley’s elf-in-waiting.

Belkar and Vaarsuvius get married on impulse, one night three years after Elan’s coronation, and Durkon officiates this one, too, and Haley walks Vaarsuvius down the isle in return. Roy builds Celia a house, because his rampages destroy and he’d like to create, and the wedding is as lovely as it is huge. Durkon meets Hilgya, a like minded rebel against archaic traditions, and it is love at first sight.

Kudzu- named by his father- is a wonderful child.

In a universe about six inches to the left, Elan is a king, and Haley is a queen, and both are very good rulers. Vaarsuvius is Captain of the Guard, and Belkar keeps an eye on the royal family, making sure that anybody lurking in the shadows gets their throats slit by the shadows themselves. Roy is a bodyguard, and Celia a lady in waiting, and Durkon a druid and the cleric companion of his friends, and Hilgya likewise their on-call, always nearby healer.

In a universe about six inches to the left, Vaarsuvius tried to become a wizard, and they killed Inkyrius by utter accident, and they never used magic again. In a universe about six inches to the left, Haley took her charm and ran with it, and when she found out her father was evil, she killed him the day he killed Tarquin. In a universe about six inches to the left, Belkar was recruited by the assassins of Azure City, and he fled when Lord Kubota decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. In a universe about six inches to the left, Elan grew up a sharp boy with a good father, a prince in every way and a gentleman as well. In a universe about six inches to the left, Durkon decided it was better to befriend the roots in the tunnels than flee them, and when he got banished for it, he returned to become a heralded savior, because living plants hold dirt and stone together like nothing else, and the mines never collapsed again. In a universe about six inches to the left, Roy’s father was a tad smarter, and he grew up without a blood oath over his head or a dead little brother, and he decided to take righteous fury a bit farther than his teachers intended.

In this universe, things turned out very, very different, and in the next one… who knows?


	2. Bait

There is one thing you need to know before this story begins, and it is that somewhere, somehow, Belkar had acquired an infinite flask of whiskey. Not the kind that anybody pays decent money for, or the kind you only find at that one dive bar, no, this was a bottomless, intricately engraved flask, full of the kind of liquor people only drank when they wanted to be completely plastered five shots in. This was the kind of liquor you drank for ten seconds when you wanted to get fucked up beyond repair, for thirty if you wanted to wind up in a coma, and for forty five if you wanted to die drinking gasoline and lit firecrackers.

That was the liquor that Belkar had an infinite supply of, and the rest of his party knew it, and this will be relevant soon, but not yet.

This story begins with a kidnapping of three people: a barefoot homicidal maniac, a kleptomaniac miraculously free of commitment issues when it came to Elan, and a wizard who managed to fuck up so badly it would later become draconic lore. 

Vaarsuvius, Haley, and Belkar had been snagged right after a random encounter, by gnolls, and by some miracle all three of them rescued themselves in under an hour without losing more than ten HP each. Vaarsuvius was clean out of spells and also clean out of components, Belkar was limping, and Haley was going to kill Roy for not fucking _noticing_ when _three_ of his party members got _kidnapped_.

And by gnolls, of all things.

It was the middle of the night as the trio warily and wearily walked the game trail back to the encampment of the Order of the Stick (including Minrah and Redcloak), the Sapphire Guard (sans Hinjo), and the crew of the Mechanae. 

Haley had an arrow knocked, her armor beaten to hell and back and covered in blood. Dirt was caked where she’d spent an hour and a half unconscious on the floor of a cave, and her eyes were the kind of bloodshot you only found in college students on finals week. The rogue had become the defacto leader, mainly because Belkar was easy to lead and Vaarsuvius was too tired to want to think about ordering people around, which was an absolutely terrifying first.

Belkar had both daggers in his hands, not looking at his feet at all since both his two animals and Vaarsuvius’ imaginary raven were still sleeping at the camp. The halfling was covered in dirt, covered in three times as much blood, and going to kill the next thing he saw. Both he and Haley were squinting their respective black and ice blue eyes to see in the moonlight filtering through the trees- he was going to need some sort of darkvision artifact, next time he found a decent shop.

Vaarsuvius’ robes were beyond any salvation, and at this point were likely more red from gnoll blood than from their original color. The elf’s cloak had been stolen, and they hadn’t had the time to look for it after not finding it with their stuff. One of Vaarsuvius’ sleeves was completely torn away, and their thick purple hair fell in loose, snarled as hell, filthy waves around their shoulders, having come out of its usual ponytail. Their golden eyes scanned the scenery, weighted by the fact that if something  _ did _ come at the three of them, Vaarsuvius would be their only shot at getting some warning.

Also, that was pretty much all they were good for, since their spellbook was in their tent with Blackwing and they were completely out of spell slots and components anyway.

Fortunately, they all made their way silently through the woods, and arrived back at the encampment, bloodied, dirtied, beaten to shit, and altogether looking like the world’s strongest cocktail of absolute hell and death washed over.

Belkar emerged from the trees first, Vaarsuvius and Haley right behind them, and the three of them exhaled sighs of relief, before looking up to find their camp completely ransacked and all of their allies gone.

Tents were overturned, poles broken, all their belongings missing. Nothing but canvas and broken wood and the scattered remains of a fire were left.

Vaarsuvius’ lips were pressed together, and Haley got the sense they were struggling with the urge to start swearing in Elvish. She herself was mentally running through every curse word she knew.

Belkar, of course, had no such restraint, and honestly, why had any of them expected better results than the ones of the rescue attempt at Wooden Forest?

“Given the track record of this particular trio, I find myself wondering why I am surprised,” Vaarsuvius said, in that bowstring tense tone that lets you know that the next person to give them any shit is getting their jaw dislocated, negative Strength modifier be damned.

“Yeah, well, it was the fuckin gnolls if you were wondering, and I for one am looking forward to a repeat of Wooden Forest!”

“Silence, Bitterleaf.”

“Make me.”

“Both of you shut the hell up!” Haley hissed, glaring at the underbrush like it was liable to bite her (which, to be fair, it had before). “Okay. Okay. We need a plan. We need information to have a plan. We need to do some recon to have information. Belkar, the gnolls kept joking about size to height ratio, they stole your lizard and your cat, and they think it was dumb to take someone who couldn’t kill a mouse when they stole you before anyone else.”

Haley and Vaarsuvius set off, following the livid ranger, and both traded silent nods which meant ‘the person with darkvision looks for threats and the one with the bow shoots them’.

It took thirty minutes of agonizingly slow walking, pausing to silently hack at all the plants in their way and freezing at every odd noise, to find the gnolls.

By the state of the hyena-humanoids’ current camp, Vaarsuvius’ spells, Belkar’s daggers, and Haley’s arrows had taken out most of their clan. Ramshackle shelters had been set up, surrounding the massive central circle made by the large wooden poles spaced just far enough that none of the people tied to them could reach each other without the guards noticing.

Fortunately, all of their things were considerately piled into the middle of said circle, and Vaarsuvius breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Blackwing hidden within it, the light of the gnolls’ many torches gleaming just a little bit on his feathers.

Mr Scruffy and Bloodfeast were with him, and Vaarsuvius told Belkar as much, because he may have been a dick, but he was getting better about it, and besides, they’d kill him if he didn’t tell them Blackwing was safe and  _ he _ was the only one who could see it.

“...if we free Lien and O-Chul first, then the entire fight is probably gonna be pretty easy,” Haley mused, more to herself than to her two companions who were listening anyway.

“How would we do that without getting jumped by the ton of gnolls? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m running on rage and adrenaline, and Ears must be that good of a lay and screwing the gods themselves if they’re still alive. We’ll die in two rounds. Max.”

Vaarsuvius blinked, ears quivering the way they always did when the elf figured something out.

“A distraction.”

“A what now?”

“We will need a distraction, and I am the least useful for this endeavor.”

This moment?

This one right here?

This is the moment where Belkar’s flask becomes relevant.

Haley reached out- to grab them, or push them back, or otherwise stop them, Vaarusuvius would never know, because they grabbed Belkar’s flask, uncapped it, and started chugging the kind of booze they imagined Sabine would drink on a visit home as they ran out of the cover of the trees.

The gnolls noticed them immediately, and as they sprinted through the center of the camp and somehow dodged the seven spears aimed in their direction, Vaarsuvius tossed a dagger to O-Chul amidst the shouts of their friends, all while gulping down whiskey that was probably just gasoline and pepper juice, even as they booked it into the trees on the camp’s other side, a brilliant spot of red and violet against the green and brown backdrop of the forest.

Vaarsuvius kept drinking, and they kept running, even as the gnoll howls got closer. The general idea was that given their Constitution, they’d be too plastered to feel pain by the time they got caught, and given the particular brand of whiskey they were nearly inhaling, that was actually a fairly realistic plan.

Of course, because Elan had to be right about something or he’d have been dead by now, Vaarsuvius’ ankle caught a stray root, and the elf hit the ground hard.

The bonus of running from gnolls while chugging booze as a substitute for morphine and then falling flat on your face is that you know whether your plan worked or not, and in Vaarsuvius’ case, their plan worked beautifully, as they hadn’t even noticed they were on the ground until a gnoll hauled them up and they realized the trees were moving because they were completely, utterly, blackout drunk, not because they were still running.

The elf gave the gnolls holding them up a sardonic, crooked grin, and passed out.

Vaarsuvius did not want to open their eyes. Vaarsuvius wanted to  _ die _ . Their head was pounding so hard that breathing hurt, and they felt like they’d been feverishly delusional and poisoned at the same time, and their entire abdomen ached with the physical pain version of getting a divorce, and they were pretty sure they’d spent part of last night dead.

Then again, the last thing they remembered was their crapshot plan and tossing O-Chul the dagger, so it was entirely possible.

“Are you awake?”

Redcloak’s voice was not soothing. It was not helpful. It was not a balm on all their aches and pains. It was another fucking noise to grate on their already oversensitive hearing, which had only grown  _ more _ sensitive with their apparent hangover.

Unfortunately, all of the emotional expression Vaarsuvius was capable of was currently manifesting in their flattened ears and in the extremely pained groan they gave the goblin as a response.

But Redcloak was secretly an utter marshmallow and genuinely a pretty nice person to his friends, and Vaarsuvius hummed their thanks when the goblin lowered his voice.

“Cure Moderate Wounds.”

The pain in their head instantly lessened, and though they were  _ not _ opening their eyes, the act of being conscious was almost bearable.

“You saved all our asses, by the way. It was only because you led most of the gnolls off that we made it out, which made it even worse when we found you, even though you were blackout drunk, not dead. The gnolls put some nasty gouges in you- I honestly thought Elan wouldn’t be able to cast, he was crying so hard.”

Another hum, and a flick of their ear.

“Everyone’s fine except you.”

A sigh, as Vaarsuvius wished very much that magic could knock them unconscious.

“You’ll be fine,” Redcloak said, voice so low it was more rumble than words. “And Haley was the one who got you into night robes, so… I don’t know. Don’t worry, I guess. But- you should definitely try to get some trancing done.”

Redcloak unfolded a blanket, and draped it over the elf, lightly brushing his fingers over their temples with another murmured healing spell. Hangovers were hell, and Vaarsuvius’, he imagined, were even worse.

The goblin settled in to watch over the elf. The hustle and bustle of a great many allies could have been heard, but Durkon had cast a spell on the tent, so Vaarsuvius was suffering a little less than they would have been otherwise.

He wondered how they’d react to finding out that Belkar had officially gifted them the flask once the halfling found it in the forest last night.


	3. Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Order of the Stick is almost completely dead long before this takes place. Only surviving member is V.

In a nameless town, on desolate plains, there is a cottage. It is old, and burnt, and falling down, and it is not uninhabited, at least not for tonight. The shaking wizard who chose it as a camp picked it because it was in ruins- because of all the places in the world, nobody would think to seek Vaarsuvius the Dragonslayer here.

Oh, the Order might have. The Order might have found them, too- Haley would have left no stone unturned, and Durkon would have been asking around, and Roy would have been trying to puzzle out where they went, and Belkar would have stabbed everything in his path looking for answers, and then Elan would have walked into the cottage to pet mice and found an elf of whipcord and bones, in torn-up robes, wearing a broken Headband of Intellect.

The Order wouldn’t have given Vaarsuvius a choice. Roy would have pep talked them, and Haley would have fretted as Durkon cast his spells and fed them soup, and Elan would serenade the elf to make them recover faster, and Belkar would have sent Mr Scruffy to curl up on their lap and pretend he didn’t like them.

The Order would have found them, but the Order was dead.

Vaarsuvius huddled in a ruined cottage, feeding themself and Mr Scruffy and Bloodfeast on whatever they could steal from the town for that night. Roy’s sword was strapped to their back- through sheer willpower, the elf had gained the strength to lift it. Durkon’s shield was on Vaarsuvius’ back over Roy’s sword, his hammer long ago returned to the dwarven lands. Elan’s puppet was in Vaarsuvius’ bag, and his lute hung on their bony shoulder in it’s case. Haley’s longbow was in their hand, an arrow knocked, the two gems she’d gotten from her mother’s family set into the brooch at Vaarsuvius’ throat and into the broken Headband of Intellect they still wore.

Their spellbook had been burned in the final fight, a fight not against Xykon but against the black dragons.

They had been foolish, reckless and foolish and so, so  _ stupid _ , and by the time the world’s black dragons came for them, Vaarsuvius had told everyone in the Order as much.

And the Order had stood by them, and the Order was now dead.

Their spellbook had burned, and Blackwing had vanished with it, and the elf lived in a state too full of fear to take the time to get another one. They got by well enough, and they may be gaunt, but they were somehow even stronger now than they had been previously. Vaarsuvius had sliced their robes up until the tattered hemline sat just above their knees, making up for it with a pair of Haley’s worn, soft cotton pants.

Mr Scruffy slunk around the edges of the cottage, Bloodfeast sunning himself on a rock on the opposite side. Vaarsuvius sat, huddled in the twilight, bow out, arrow knocked, ears constantly swiveling to pick up the slightest whisper of wind. 

Gods, but they were paranoid these days. If, by some miracle, the Order had been brought back to life, then they would be welcome, but Vaarsuvius would welcome no others. Xykon had achieved his dream- he had conquered the world, and Redcloak had been left with no choice but to stand by him.

Even so, the goblin had helped Vaarsuvius flee, and for that, the elf considered them friends still.

In the distance, dry grass crackled, and Vaarsuvius was on their feet instantly. Their ears quivered, tilted towards the sound, and their long purple hair, now in a braid, swished as they snapped their eyes to where the noise had come from. The grasses of these particular plains grew taller than they were- maybe even taller than Roy.

The white cat and the red lizard skittered over to the elf’s feet, ducking and weaving through the shreds of their cloak. It had been four years, and they would need to get a new one soon.

Vaarsuvius didn’t make a sound as footsteps drew closer. They just pulled the bowstring taut.

Amidst the grass, they spotted a head of deep blue hair. Vaarsuvius let the arrow fly.

“Hu- GAH! OCTAVIA!”

_ Blue hair- looking for me-  _

“Parent?” Vaarsuvius whispered, too quietly to be heard. It- of course it wasn’t. It didn’t get to be-

“Tiberius, I  _ can _ hear you. What happened?”

“I was walking to the cottage and you  _ shot me _ .”

Vaarsuvius’s hand darted down, and they scooped Bloodfeast into his pocket on the side of Elan’s lute case. Mr Scruffy could keep pace with the elf, but they worried for the lizard’s shorter legs.

“...honey, you’ve got all our arrows on you.”

_ Oh no. Oh no. Tiberius- Parent- and Octavia- Other Parent- _

“Tiberius? Octavia? What’s going on?”

_ That _ was a voice Vaarsuvius would recognize anywhere, and every muscle in their body went taut as Aarindarius circled the cottage to where their Parent- and  _ fuck _ , they just shot their Parent- presumably lay.

Their Parent and Other Parent were rangers, Aarindarius was a wizard, why the  _ fuck _ hadn’t it occurred to them that those three would be looking for them? Of course they were, Aarindarius taught them all they knew and they used the knowledge to commit genocide and their Parent had taught them the value of life and again,  _ genocide _ , and Other Parent had been so happy when she’d found out she was getting grandkids-

Vaarsuvius used the momentary distraction of Tiberius getting shot to do the only thing they could think of.

They bolted.

Grass crackled under their feet as their legs- far stronger than they’d once been- practically ate ground when they started muttering ‘Expeditious Retreat’ under their breath. Thank all the gods they’d memorized it when they had the chance. Mr Scruffy kept pace with them, and Bloodfeast blinked slowly, along for the ride next to Elan’s lute.

Aarindarius shouted, and Vaarsuvius ran faster as three sets of footsteps pounded after them. The elf was still clutching Haley’s bow, and they knocked another arrow, because they didn’t fucking  _ want _ to shoot their first family but if it stopped said first family from dying just like the second, they  _ would _ .

In fact, they were so focused on their first family that they didn’t even notice the plate armored figure until they ran into them and fell to the ground.

Vaarsuvius blinked, and stared up at Inkyrius, who was fully armored with the exception of a helm and holding a very long, very sharp greatsword. The former wizard cautiously put their dead best friend’s bow away, sliding it on like one might a messenger bag, making sure that said bow wouldn’t catch on the Greenhilt sword or the Thundershield… shield… should they have need for either.

“Oh  _ hell _ no,” the baker (?) said. “Hell. No. You are  _ not _ running from this one.”

“...I think you will find that I am far better at it than I was,” Vaarsuvius said, and then they lunged.

Roy’s sword slid seamlessly from it’s sheath to Vaarsuvius’ hands, and they may have been muscle and bone and not a single spare ounce of weight, but they were muscled nonetheless.

Inkyrius blocked clumsily, and it was immediately apparent that they hadn’t been doing this for long. Vaarsuvius had learned, though they hadn’t known it at the time, by watching their party members fight, and like any wizard worth their salt, they had learned well.

Vaarsuvius thrust, and Inkyrius parried. The baker slashed just slowly enough for Vaarsuvius to duck back, and because tonight was a good night to make bad choices, they went in for a stab that would have done minimal damage but caused a lot of pain, had Inkyrius not smacked the blow away with the flat of their blade.

Strike parry strike strike parry parry parry strike parry strike strike hit-

-Inkyrius hissed, and a small line of red that was going to scar marked the spot on their cheek where Vaarsuvius used to kiss them goodnight-

-parry parry strike strike strike parry strike strike hit-

-Vaarsuvius knew that the only reason they’d avoided wounds thus far was because their complete lack of armor made them far more mobile, so they weren’t too surprised when a new wound opened over old scars on the back of their forearm-

-parry-

“VAARSUVIUS WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS ARE YOU  _ DOING _ !?”

At the start of their adventuring career, they would have winced at their Other Parent’s shouting, but after so long with the Order (cough Elan cough) they just danced away and let Inkyrius’ sword slash air. Vaarsuvius was about to go in for another strike when Aarindarius threw his hands up, a Fireball crackling around his fingers as he put himself between Inkyrius and Vaarsuvius.

“ _ What _ -” the wizard ground out “-is going on?”

Mr Scruffy was again slinking around Vaarsuvius’ feet, hissing at the unfamiliar elves. Parent ran a hand through his short, dark blue hair, and stepped forward, reaching a hand towards the cat.

“Hello. I’m Tiberius, and that’s Octavia. We don’t want to hurt you, or your elf.”

Mr Scruffy hissed, and swatted the outstretched hand away. Vaarsuvius, knowing they were outmatched four to one, sheathed the Greenhilt sword and picked up the cat.

“...where is your spellbook?” Aarindarius asked, still holding the Fireball aloft. Other Parent was looking at him disapprovingly, but Vaarsuvius understood the sentiment behind it.

“It burned. My familiar burned with it. The Order of the Stick stood by me and it killed them all. I do not intend to have you fall to similar fates, no matter how many times I have to stab you to ensure this.”

Inkyrius sucked a breath in, and Aarindarius’ Fireball vanished into thin air. He looked stricken. Parent and Other Parent were holding each other, staring at Vaarsuvius in undisguised shock.

They gave the group a grim smile, and with a rustle of dried grass, they were gone.

Three days later, Vaarsuvius was once more holed up in another abandoned cottage. This far into the wildlands meant Xykon wouldn’t send many minions, if he even knew where to find them-

-then again, Inkyrius, Aarindarius, and their parents had.

The elf was eating their one meal a day- lunch- which consisted of jerky and rations. Mr Scruffy prowled the cottage, searching for any new scents on the breeze, or any noises in the unchanged tall grass. This was the one time a day Vaarsuvius wasn’t on the top of their guard, and both cat and lizard were picking up the slack.

Vaarsuvius choked down the last of Belkar’s food- they’d been surviving off of what their party had left them- and stood, one hand ready to knock an arrow and the other hovering around the hilt of Roy’s sword.

They would not be caught again. If Xykon had been tracking the four elves-

Pointed ears twitched, and Vaarsuvius drew Roy’s sword and whirled just in time to parry Octavia’s… hand. Their Other Parent winced sharply, hissing through clenched teeth as she healed the gash on her arm. Parent was behind her, his blue hair ruffled by the wind, but-

Inkyrius. Aarindarius.

“Where are the other two?” Vaarsuvius growled, flattened ears matching Mr Scruffy’s perfectly. Tiberius looked hurt, ears drooping, but this was Octavia’s territory.

“Inkyrius and Aarindarius are about ten feet back. We thought it might be better for you to talk to us, not them. Do you want some bread?”

Vaarsuvius didn’t lower their stance, but their eyes flickered from their blue-haired Parent, worried and hopeful, and their lavender-haired Other Parent, knowing and determined.

“Please? You’re practically whipcord and bone. I’m not even sure how you’re holding that sword.”

The former wizard didn’t move, and Tiberius stepped forward, putting an arm on his wife’s shoulder.

“Just a bite?”

Vaarsuvius caved, sheathing the sword, and though they were supposed to take one bite, they wound up eating the loaf.

Inkyrius and Aarindarius hesitantly approached, and when Vaarsuvius asked them why they were looking, the four shared a glance.

“So how much do you know about this revolution Redcloak is leading? That he would like you to help him lead?”

Vaarsuvius paused, ears perking up and golden eyes narrowing, a smile coming to their lips for the first time in four years.

“...I’m listening.”


	4. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon falls as a paladin but gets a happy ending.

Longing

Soon’s been tempted by many things- he’s been tempted by Mijung’s mischief, by Girard’s annoyances, by Kraagor’s rage and by his own- but this is the first time he’s honestly felt tempted to Fall.

It would be worth it. It would be fine. He could break his oath, suffer the consequences, and be reunited with the last people he wanted to hurt.

Ronjo is busy, the Guard is busy, and Soon knows, logically, that they aren’t his friends. They are coworkers, apprentices, and paladins at arms before they are friends, and that’s why he’s sitting in his little office, alone, eternally glad he kept the Darkvision artifact he’d picked up between Lirian’s Gate and Girard’s. 

The longing for simpler times and the company of five people who had never not been willing to drop everything for their friends- even for him- hits him like a punch in the gut, and Soon doubles over, slamming his hand into the desk as his shoulders shake, and it hits him that he could.

He could just… go. Cross an ocean and go visit Lirian, or head through the mountains to Dorukan, or even up to the Dwarven Lands to see Kraagor. It wouldn’t be hard to find a scrying spell that could tell him where ever-traveling Serini was going to be. It would probably be only slightly harder to find Girard.

What was stopping him? Ronjo was the leader of the Sapphire Guard, all of whom had grown tired and distant. Soon was largely forgotten by Azure City until one of the nobles wanted something from him. Why couldn’t he? 

A knocks sounds at the door, and Soon opens it.

Ronjo pulls him away from his thoughts and into his work with reports of dragon attacks, and Soon is a little shocked at himself for completely neglecting to think of the fact that if he visits any of the Order, he will fall.

He’s not sure if he’s more scared that falling would be the price for seeing his family, or more scared that it’s starting to seem more and more like one worth paying.

Loneliness

It’s been five years, he misses the Order too much to write poetry about anybody else, and at this point he’s honestly considering taking on a dragon solo to see if it’ll finally kill him so he can stop wishing he could visit his five friends.

Ronjo is Lord of Azure City. Every single member of the Sapphire Guard has settled into families, work, and life, except him, and Soon has never felt more alone.

The nobles want him to be a god, the Guard needs him to be a mentor, and the world needs him to pull himself together and stop being a mess just because he can’t drink any tea besides the blend he learned about from Lirian, because everything else is sub par.

Soon is sitting in the small kitchen reserved for the paladins, a cup of that tea in his hands. The palace is understandably quiet, because it’s three in the morning.

He’s only awake because there’s no longer a Serini to soothe the nightmares, that halfling lullaby she sang to all of them chasing the shadows away like nothing else ever had.

Soon hasn’t heard it since he last saw her, but he remembers how it goes.

“...There is fire where there is life,

Burning through the darker nights,

A little, flickering, eternal flame,

A blessing you hold that has no name…”

It’s nothing like Serini’s winding soprano, but it’s something all the same, and Soon isn’t so terrible a singer that he’ll stop.

“It keeps you safe and keeps you warm,

Through even the coldest winter storm,

Resting in your hand it lights the way,

And guides you to the rising day,

When you’ve got no place to hide,

And nobody else is on your side,

Know that the fire between your cupped hands,

Will stay with you through the most barren lands…”

None of the Sapphire Guard stop by the door to listen. Nobody walks into the kitchen for Soon to fail to notice. No paladin comes by to remind him that he’s needed, and no servant eavesdrops to remind him that he’s wanted.

The servants are busy with their jobs. The Guard is busy with their lives.

“Though I can’t stay long with you,

I give you that fire to hold onto,

Consider it a parting gift,

Before fate sets us both adrift.”

Soon Kim closes his eyes, hoping that singing the lullaby would make him feel better and knowing he only feels worse. There is nobody else in the kitchen, nobody in the hall outside. There is nobody with time left to spare for a paladin who’s already finished his quest.

Fear

Soon is struck, one morning, by the thought that if any of the five people who mean the most to him die, he will never know.

He can’t even go to a funeral. He can’t protect them- what if one of Girard’s enemies figures him out? What if Serini gets caught? What if Dorukan fumbles on a spell, or Lirian trusts the wrong person, or Kraagor takes on one foe too many?

What will he do then? 

Soon laughs, bitter and mirthless. 

Nothing. He will do nothing, because he won’t even know they’re gone. There will be no invites to funerals, no notice, nothing to so much as hint at their deaths.

They could already be dead. They could be trapped in a dungeon and screaming for help and  _ he will not be there _ .

Yes, Soon promised to never seek them out, but before that he promised to keep them safe, and really, which one does he care more to keep?

Soon stops sleeping altogether, healing the exhaustion damage and reorganizing the kitchen for eight hours to get his spells. He never gets more than five minutes of dozing before he wakes up screaming, as he watches Serini hung for crimes she didn’t commit, Girard torn apart by the dictators of the West, Lirian murdered by a creature she shouldn’t have trusted, Kraagor toppled by an army he’d almost defeated, Dorukan burned at the stake by small minded villagers who knew just enough to gag him.

The paladin sees it every time he closes his eyes, all the ways his friends could so very easily lose the wrong battle, and all it ever took was one victorious enemy.

Soon doesn’t sleep because he can’t. He can barely close his eyes; he can barely keep them open. He saved the world, made one last promise to his friends- his loves? Soon’s so tired he can barely tell- chose to protect his gate, and wound up in… this is hell. It has to be.

Anger

Soon doesn’t have good days, or okay days, not anymore. He has bad days and worse days and worst days, and this is a worst day.

He’s on a mission, defending the borders, and Soon never before knew how Kraagor could fight with so much rage.

He does now.

A bandit lunges, and his guts are on the rocky ground with his blood splashed into the soil and staining the mountain stones before Soon can think about it. Gods, he blinks and sees  _ red _ , and if that were all, he’d be fine. 

But it’s not. He sees red-

_ -red like the flowers Lirian braided into Kraagor’s beard, red like the rubies Serini slipped into his pocket when he mentioned paying back the dowry from Mijung’s family (who had insisted, because tradition), red like Girard’s hair in the right sunset, red like Dorukan’s magic when he was truly livid, red like all of their blood spilled in a mossy clearing on a hard stone floor on a packed dirt road in a little hill of snow on golden desert sand- _

-he sees orange-

_ -orange like the fire Dorukan called, orange like the sun-shot copper of Girard’s hair, orange like the dresses Serini wore because she so loved to twirl, orange like the blend of tea Lirian gave him, orange like the talismans on Kraagor’s axe- _

-he sees yellow-

_ -yellow like the summer sun that matched Lirian’s hair shade for shade, yellow like the swish of robes as Dorukan sat down next to him, yellow like the daisy chains Serini made for all of them, yellow like the aura of all of Kraagor’s gods, yellow like shine of coin when Girard pocketed something with that Cheshire cat smile- _

-he sees green-

_ -green like the headband Dorukan focused all his spells through with some determination that would outlast the gods, green like Lirian’s eyes when you told her one of your secrets, green like cloak Girard had bought to blend with the forest so he could keep an eye on them, green like the emerald ring Serini gave Kraagor (it had sat on his little finger every day since), green like the very first grass Kraagor had ever seen- _

-he sees blue-

_ -blue like Girard’s brilliantly sharp eyes, blue like the sapphire Dorukan had picked to seal the rift because ‘It’s your city, Soon, I’d hate to deviate from the color scheme you grew up in’, blue like the sky Lirian had called thunderstorms into when she raged, blue like the oceans Serini managed to befriend all the mermaids in, blue like the magical fire on the edge of Kraagor’s axe- _

-he sees purple-

_ -purple like the magic Girard could do such brilliant things with, purple like the lavender blossoms Kraagor planted for Lirian’s birthday, purple like the worn-smooth wood of Dorukan’s staff, purple like the wisteria canopy Serini taught him her favorite dance under, purple like the night sky reflected in Lirian’s eyes- _

The bandits are dead.

Soon stands, jaw clenched so hard his bones could break, tears dripping down his cheeks, because  _ he refuses to let the gods see him fall apart _ .

They were the ones who told him he made the right decision abandoning all he’d ever loved, they were the ones who let him rot without the loves of his life, they were the ones who hadn’t done a  _ damn thing _ -

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Soon glares at the sky and begins the trek back to the palace in Azure City.

He can’t call it home. Paladins don’t lie.

Abandonment

Soon sits on the steps of Azure City’s primary temple in the middle of the night, thinking, once again, of the five (living, gods, gods, he hopes they’re alive) loves of his life.

There had been moments on the road, of course, but in the end Soon will never be able to pick just one. How could he possibly choose between them?

Lirian’s soft smiles and the way she always listened, Girard’s sharp eyes and how viciously he fought your demons as much as he could, Serini’s cheerful grin and that she made sure to let Soon know she bought every gift she gave him just to let him know he could accept it, Kraagor’s bone-crushing hugs and how every ounce of rage left him the second he saw you were hurt and got replaced by a quiet sort of worry, Dorukan’s soothing murmurs and the little shows of magic he’d put on just for you.

Soon loves them equally, and he loves them all so much he’s not sure he loved Mijung more. He’ll kill anyone who hurts them if the news ever gets to him, but other than sit and wait and be forgotten there’s nothing he can do.

He can’t stop it, he can’t help them, he can’t bail Serini out for doing the right thing or whisper comforts into Girard’s hair when the illusionist panics. He can’t talk Kraagor down from his rages or smooth things over between the group. He can’t heal Lirian when she’s out of spells or pull Dorukan out of his head.

Soon wasn’t sure before, but he is now. The Guard doesn’t need him. At some point over the course of a decade he’d gone from a wise mentor to an old burden, and he wonders what the tipping point was. 

In the end, it didn’t matter, because the nobles refused to pay for his food and Ronjo either couldn’t stop them or couldn’t muster the energy to try (Soon forgives him. Of course he does. Ronjo is only human, and he can’t fight every battle the nobles start, and Soon knows better than most that sacrifices must be made).

So the paladin sits outside the temple doors, wondering how long it’ll take his sleeplessness to kill him now that he can’t get a barrel’s worth of healing potions on demand.

He’s not even sure why he’s here. Dragon had shown up in his dreams once, and told him to stop worrying about the Order.

Like they weren’t the world. Like he could get over them when nothing waited for him here but a blue and lonely hell.

Soon sits on the temple steps, and watches the world go by. He only blinks and turns his head when a hand lands on his shoulder- it’s the high priest of the temple, instated… two years ago? Soon didn’t even know his name.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not a paladin of the Sapphire Guard or here for temple services, so you’re technically loitering.”

For about thirty seconds, Soon thinks he failed his listen check because that’s the dumbest fucking thing he’s heard that week (and the nobility fired him yesterday for literally nothing but being older than the rest of the Guard).

When he does realize that yes, the fifteenth level cleric who lives here and knows half the Guard personally said that, Soon tries to respond with something smooth and kind and slightly scathing, but all that comes out is a strangled word.

“ _ What _ ?”

“Sir Kim-”

_ Oh, so he does actually know who he’s talking to _ .

“-I was contacted about your… unfortunate situation with the nobles. I asked the Twelve Gods for guidance, and they told me that your time in Azure City had passed, that the borders of our territory needed defending. As you are no longer part of the Guard, you will be tasked with making rounds with our militia, and paying off your debt to the gods incurred by your inclination to defy their word.”

Soon can actually pinpoint that as the second he decides that it’s a price he’s alright with paying.

_ Debt _ . A  _ debt _ . For loving people. For missing them. For being stuck alone and forgotten and not  _ liking _ it, not suffering nobly and silently and nicely.

His hands become white-knuckled fists, and he’d be surprised at the rage that’s burning in every fiber of his being if he had life enough left to care.

“ _ I owe them nothing _ ,” Soon growls, and he clenches his fists until his palms start to bleed because that’s what it takes to hide their shaking.

The priest blinks.

“The gods have decreed it so. Such is the price of being a holy warrior.”

Soon stands so fast the priest starts, and he starts striding towards the nearest gate out of the city. He leaves the priest behind without a second glance.

“It’s not a price worth paying,” the once-paladin snarled, and Soon felt it the moment he fell.

He was right outside the city, and the road was deserted at this hour. The stars were bright, because the moon was dark. The guards posted on the wall never even noticed.

Soon feels his feet leave the ground, as his magic, his blessing, his power drains from his body completely. Fear slams into him like an avalanche, panic tightening in his chest as Soon drops fifteen feet to the rocky ground. The Twelve Gods spare no gentleness for the people who have failed them.

Soon lays there, silent and bleeding, and to his surprise, his cloak isn’t beige, but black.

He hadn’t just fallen.

He was an Oathbreaker.

Soon Kim stands, and starts walking to Dorukan’s Dungeon. He’s not the man who failed them, or the paladin who left them, and maybe the five of them would turn him away, but at least then he knew they were alive.

At least then he could try to keep them safe.

He makes it five miles before the Sapphire Guard catches up to him, and Soon hears footsteps and armor long before he sees them crest the hill behind him.

Soon knocks all of them to zero in seven rounds, and when he’s sure they won’t bleed out, he keeps walking.

Dorukan opens the door one afternoon two months later, and Soon blinks back tears and hopes against hope that the wizard will understand. Brown eyes take in the black where there was blue, the holy symbols Soon has scorched and scratched off his armor, the lack of a mount and the dust he’s covered in, and Dorukan looks up at Soon with tears slipping freely down his cheeks.

“You never wanted this,” he whispers. “You never wanted to become this.”

Soon closes his eyes as his shoulders shake, trying to at least make it through the door before he breaks down in tears.

“I wanted the five of you more.”

And then thin hands wrap around his arms, and Soon is being pulled gently into Dorukan’s house. The wizard pushes him onto the couch, makes him take off his armor because it’s uncomfortable as hell and set his gear down on the low shelf for it by the door. Soon curls into the corner of Dorukan’s couch and shakes, and the wizard comes back in with a teapot and six mugs, which he sets on the coffee table.

Dorukan sits on the plush couch next to him, and ever so gently pulls Soon into a hug.

The Oathbreaker sobs his eyes out on the wizard’s shoulder, and it’s only when a knock comes at the door that Soon realizes he brought out six mugs, not two.

Girard is the first person in, and he’s vaulting over a chair to throw himself onto the couch so he can yank Soon into the best hug he’s gotten in years. The Oathbreaker gives a teary smile and buries his face in Girard’s shoulder as the illusionist clutches him so tightly he wonders if Girard will ever let go.

He hopes he doesn’t.

Lirian is next, fretting over travelling conditions and making sure he’s not hurt before she presses a kiss to his forehead and says ‘whatever it was, I forgive you’.

Serini dumps an obscenely large basket of baked goods in his lap, and Kraagor starts talking about his day just to distract Soon from his thoughts.

Paladins weren’t paladins with conditions. They were paladins without their friends, without their family, without their loves.

Two years later, Soon rolls out of the bed that’s really just a pillow pit that he shares with his five datemates. Girard pecks him on the lips as he makes breakfast, and Dorukan kisses his temple as the wizard sits at the table. Lirian get him on the corner of his mouth, and Serini presses a little smooch to the tip of his nose. Kraagor- who is not and never will be a morning person- kisses him on the cheek and promptly yells at Girard for under spicing the eggs.

Paladins weren’t paladins with conditions, and Soon smiles as he goes through the morning routine he and the loves of his life have worked out, because he’s not a paladin. You didn’t need to be a paladin to do good things, and sometimes, even gods were wrong.

There really were promises you just shouldn’t keep.


	5. Overgrown

Nobody’s quite sure what killed the Order of the Scribble. The Snarl got Kraagor, yes, but it didn’t get the others. Xykon never got Lirian or Dorukan- the both of them were already gone.

The Sapphire Guard will tell you a story about how Soon went on a noble quest and never came back. The Draketooth Clan will tell you how Girard left to stock up for the pyramid, his fate now lost to the desert sands. The Dungeon Employees will tell you that Dorukan was supposed to be at a meeting one morning, and the ever-punctual wizard simply never arrived. The Refuge Guardians say that Lirian went to cure a blight nearby, and when they checked on her days later, the forest was healthy, but the druid was gone. The Gravekeepers will say that retirement was never Serini’s style, and she’d probably gotten too old and too slow at the wrong moment.

If you ask them what they think, the paladins will bow their heads and say Soon must have died in battle. The Draketooths sigh and shake their heads, stating that all the constant war in the desert and all his many enemies were bound to nab Girard someday. The employees grumble that Dorukan still owes them a paycheck, and really, who was he to walk out of the dungeon in full view of everyone and never come back? The guardians will sniffle, some wiping away a tear, and whisper that blights have been known to claim the lives of the people who cure them. The Gravekeepers shrug. They don’t know, and who are they to assume? She probably got eaten.

They are all wrong.

The Order died as they had all once thought they would: together, one by one, until the last of them was left alone, but that is where the truth of their once-strong belief ended, because they had assumed, naturally, that Soon would be first, dead defending them, and Dorukan second, too frail to carry on. Lirian would be next, a little slow to dodge and just too low on spells, and Serini would come after, having no magic to protect herself, but Girard- paranoid, provoked Girard- would be last. 

Serini Toormuck, the ever-cautious rogue, was first, jumping in front of Lirian to protect her from the hellscape monsters that came out of the walls that breathed and the doors that spoke (the windows here are full of teeth, not glass, and you can see through them anyway).

Girard was next, despite Dorukan’s best efforts, and he died protecting the only thing he’d ever be loyal to: his family. It wasn’t quite for nothing- Lirian and Dorukan and Soon got away, and they destroyed the artifact holding this place together, but the thing about hells is that no matter what kind they are they all leave you slowly.

Too slowly for Lirian to duck when a seven foot spike of a leg landed on the ground where she’d been standing.

It went through the druid to do so.

Dorukan died angry, unleashing all of his magic and digging into his health to turn that into mana, furious and remembering the ballads about people who did this and lived.

Those people were gods. Dorukan was quite fatally human, in the end.

And so Soon Kim died alone, because this was one of those hells not even gods could save you from, or even reach you in.

His hands, clenched on the hilt of his sword, were shaking.

It’s all over now, of course. The hellscape is gone, leaving only a ruined chapel full of unexplained murders. There are no monsters in the area, after all, so why is there a halfling woman lying face-up on the floor of the entrance hall of the church? Why does she have three massive gouges, jagged, vicious wounds, on her torso? Why is she holding the splintered remains of an enchanted bow? Why does she have an empty quiver? Why are the arrows once in it spilled on the floor around her, the wooden shafts slowly turning rust-colored as her blood stains them red? (Serini’s face is perfectly unharmed, but her gravestone remains blank, because all the five people who knew her real name are buried beside her).

Why, when you walk into the main church, is there a redheaded human lying facedown on the floor, a hilt in each hand, the shattered remains of twin swords scattered silver around him? (There is no blood. But there is a collapsed cavity where his ribcage should be, and a half-mangled dragon tattoo. He is buried beside the halfling, and his gravestone is blank as well).

Why is there a pool of blood and gore and bone shards, and scraps of green fabric and strands of blonde hair, splattered and smeared on the altar? (There is not enough of Lirian left to identify. There is no blank stone for her, because there is nothing left to bury).

Why is there a man in dirty yellow robes, with blood pooling around him even though he seems unharmed, lying on his side near the broken remains of a wooden staff? Why is he holding a green circlet with a shattered gem, the shards painted over by the pool of blood they sit in? (They roll him on his back and see that all that blood was trickling from between his lips. The coroner finishes the autopsy and tells the locals to search for a spellbook. Bones didn’t melt from the inside out without leaving any marks behind unless magic was involved.)

(Dorukan isn’t buried. He is burned, a local belief in evil spirits leading the locals to purge whatever unnatural damage the wizard left behind).

(His spellbook is burned with him).

Why is there a man, with salt and pepper hair, slumped against the wall in front of the largest stained glass window? Why is his blue cloak in shreds? Why is his armor in metal shards around him? Why is his sword unharmed? And why are his eyes wide and frozen, face twisted forever into a look of pure terror? (They bury him next to Girard, placing his sword in front of the blank grave. It does not do to steal from the dead).

Nobody’s quite sure what killed the Order of the Scribble, but nobody goes into that chapel. Nobody talks to the four figures haunting it (nobody recognizes the blonde elf, either).

They all think the five (after a gate in Azure City is broken) are forest sprites, or vengeful dead, or fey folk, here for mischief or evil or chaos.

Soon turns travelers away from places that will harm them. Lirian keeps the forest alive. Dorukan whispers magic secrets into the ears of those who need to hear them. Girard conjures illusions, traps the wicked and unworthy in their own personal hell until they have learned their lesson. Serini steals from rich caravans, and later when a poor traveler passes through the forest, they find three gold coins in their bag.

They are all wrong.


End file.
